


Hero of War

by 1moresickfic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:00:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1moresickfic/pseuds/1moresickfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has returned from the war, but the memories resurface during the night and his psychosomatic limp plagues him during the day. But one day he meets the one and only Sherlock Holmes, and things seem to finally start changing for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sergeant_smudge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_smudge/gifts).



> Title and fic inspired by the song Hero of War by Rise Against. It's a really good song, I suggest giving it a listen.

_“You took a bullet to the shoulder trying to save someone’s life?_

_You must be a **war hero.”**_

 

That phrase. Those two words. The seven letters that plagued John Watson’s existence. His parents declared them in a tone that oozed with boastful pride. In the few girlfriends he’s managed to acquire after coming home, the title was voiced in a breathless awe with undertones of pity and judgments. John still remembers its venomous sting coming from an angry, drunk Harry. Even when his therapist said it - always giving it an open-ended sound as if those two words were full of all the answers to his problems - left a bitter taste in his mouth and a stone forming in his stomach. She concluded that all his negative feelings towards the phrase were just another part of his PTSD.

_“John, you’re a soldier, and it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life.”_

__

She always said these types of phrases so gently, too. As if diagnosing and explaining his experiences would cure their effects, his therapist repeated the acronym and sentence like they were the chorus of her favorite song. No matter what she said, though, he still had a psychosomatic limp and persistent nightmares. John had lost hope in ever finding a better diagnosis or more helpful treatment. Being a doctor he knew better, but he can barely afford the small flat he’s in, let alone a better psychiatrist. All he could do is hope that time is all he needs and eventually the memories would settle down. There’s only one small problem with that reasoning though: John Watson is haunted by the war.

~~~

 

It always started with gunshots; the rapid-fire, irregular pulses of guns in the arms of hearts too young to understand their actions. Next came the orchestras of screams, ranging from the shrill yelps of first being hit to the low moans beckoning Death. The cries of the wounded and dying amplified themselves to the ears of the army doctor. Trying to stay calm, he went from soldier to soldier. More often than sometimes, he was lulling the dying to their last breaths, before having to quickly move to the next patient. Blood was flowing faster than rivers. The sun was beating down on his back, making him even more flustered and pressured. John could feel the enemy lines coming closer; they emitted the stench of death and desperation. Moving to the next patient, the stolid doctor’s face contorted into a look of evident distress. Wet and sticky blood flowed from a leg wound on the young soldier in front him, but John’s mind was focused on another fact entirely. The young, promising soldier was his friend. They had trained together and been placed together. Memories fluttered through the now upset doctor’s mind. His instincts kicked in, sending his once idle arms into a frenzied scramble, checking for a pulse, stopping the bleed- No, _no,_ that’s too much blood.  Its never-ending tide was chipping away at his comrade’s, _his friend’s_ life. Deep down, John knew he wouldn’t survive, but it wasn’t even an option to leave him. Closer and closer the enemy lines came. Without warning, clouds of dust erupted around him as hails of enemy bullets rained down. In mere seconds, the dust clouds settled, swiftly floating down as if to cover the obscene horrors they created. John glanced back to his comrade’s battered body, only to see his chest rise and fall for the very last time and blood trickle from his now slack and lifeless mouth. For a few moments, the army doctor’s world was muffled from the disbelief and absolute guilt, before sharp sounds of foreign tongues brought him back. He could see the harsh, ragged outlines of the weapons in their arms. They were close, too close. A white-hot rage enveloped John’s whole being. His thoughts raced. Every emotion of anger and guilt festered itself into a bone-chilling hate that couldn’t be quieted. He grabbed the gun of his wrongfully murdered friend and fired. And he didn’t stop. Not until every last bullet had a chance to find its mark. He grimaced as he lowered the gun, watching the dust cloud he created unfurl itself to resettle upon the tainted ground. The remorseful soldier felt his pulse speed up and stomach flip when a backdrop of red decorated with the bodies of fallen soldiers came into focus. The dull sound of his gun hitting the ground reached his ringing ears, but he didn’t remember letting it go. Trapped in floods of panic and currents of guilt, John didn’t notice a lone enemy soldier stagger to his feet.

_Bang._

__

He can’t remember hearing the gunshot that left a bullet in his left shoulder, but he can still feel the raging fire that flared up. The heat radiated from his shoulder through his arm and the warm blood seeped from the freshly made wound, designing patterns on his uniform. The injured doctor fell to knees, the impact sending jolts of pain through his entire body. He knows he can’t stay on the ground, but his limbs scream at the thought of moving again. Jerkily, he rises to his feet, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. When he tries to call for help, he finds that his voice is only a hoarse whisper that tastes of blood, dust, and the unmistakable salty water of tears John didn’t know he was crying. The now hopeless doctor tries to cry out for help again, opening his eyes, desperate to see somebody. _Anybody._

His eyes reveal that the only ones that will help him now are the blank walls of his bedroom shrouded in the inky shadows of the night. The fruitless call for help dies instantly on his lips, threatening to become sobs. His harsh, ragged breaths intertwine with the soft murmur of London traffic, forming a quiet song as John tries to regain his composure. The rapid rise and fall of the ex-army doctor’s chest makes his sweat-soaked T-shirt chaff his hot skin.

_It’s not real. You are home, safe. It’s not real._

The mantra replays itself over and over, while more details begin to present themselves to John’s panicked mind. He slowly releases the white-knuckled grip he had had on his sheets. The duvet is knotted around his legs, only making his anxiety rise. He forces himself to take calming breaths, bringing his trembling hands up to his tear-stained face in the process. A few loud sobs echo through the quiet room before turning into rapid gasps that finally give way to shaky, deep breaths. Hot, sweaty skin grows cold and clammy. Eventually, John feels calm enough to get up. He peels the sheets off , drags his legs over to the edge of the bed, and manages to sit up. His feet are grateful for the solid, reassuring surface of the ground. Staring at the floor, the flustered doctor can see the faint red glow of the clock digits. Looking up, the clock digits stare back at him, daring him to react. It displays 2:31 angrily, knowing the early morning time would only frustrate him further. He gives a heaving sigh as he stands up. The dark, long outline of his cane mocks him in the darkness; he glances at it hatefully as he walks past.

_"You're nothing but scars and war medals. You're a shell of a person, lonely and fucked up."_

__

Like a broken record of self-hate, thoughts like these spin around his head. The harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom brings John back. He stares at himself in the mirror, processing the disheveled appearance. Giving a small nod of reassurance to his reflection, he turns on the shower and quickly strips off his pajamas. It’s just another routine night for John Watson.

~~~

**Three Months Later**

_“...Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live…”_

_“...you’re a war hero…”_

_“...war hero...”_

John felt his heart skip a beat. There it is. That damned phrase coming from the mouth of a man he’d just met. Deductions upon deductions streaming from the mind of Sherlock Holmes and he just had to pick those two words. They infiltrated John’s thoughts, coaxing out his feelings of anxiety and unease. But, something was different this time. He felt every negative thought gradually ebb away. Those two words that once had the power to ooze and sting were no longer doing so. John’s mouth hangs open, trying to get a grip on the world spinning around him. Could one crazy consulting detective, who plays violin when he’s thinking and doesn’t talk for days on end, have just changed a part of John’s life for the better?

The doctor snaps back into reality just in time for Sherlock to finish his deduction, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. John, still overwhelmed by the remarkable feat just performed, has to pause and try to formulate something to say. He managed a slow, awestruck: “That...was amazing.”

The detective brings his gaze back around to John, quietly asking, “You think so?”

John doesn’t miss a beat, quickly replying, “Of course it was. It was extraordinary.” He looks down at his lap, searching for words to describe the incredible thing that just happened. Finding none, he just repeats himself in an even more impressed tone, “It was quite… extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock mumbles, mostly to the cab window.

“What do people normally say?” John prompts.

The consulting detective turns back to partially face John and replies in a more enthusiastic, yet factual tone: “Piss Off!”

 

Sherlock flashed a small smile at the doctor before turning back to the window. John’s mouth split into a wide, genuine smile. For the first time since coming home from the war, the soldier’s heart was light and the world was urging him to be adventurous. He shifted around to look out the cab window and just stared at the city rushing past. His whole body glowed from the sudden happiness he found in this simple moment full of possibilities. John soon realized he was grinning wildly at a window, and must look completely ridiculous, but he didn’t stop. No, John Watson carried on smiling. He carried on smiling, like a war hero.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to zoltargirl, for being my editor, encouragement, and overall best friend. Without you, I never would have found the fictional worlds that have made my life worth living. Keep writing and stay fantastic :)


End file.
